


Beauty Tamed the Beast

by TarnisisLH



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Crime, Death, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Middle Earth, Orcs, Parent Thranduil, Reader-Insert, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnisisLH/pseuds/TarnisisLH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU: When a top assassin from the Guild ORC fails in killing her target, her world gets turned upside down. Is love strong enough to keep death and destruction at bay? Or will our lovely assassin be swallowed whole. Thranduil/Reader adventure, angst, feels, and eventual romance.</p>
<p>Originally posted on Deviantart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Modern AU! Thranduil x Orc Reader**

  
  **Beauty Tamed the Beast: Part One**    


* * *

 

She was a mercenary; brutal and cold and thoroughly without mercy. To most this wouldn’t have been something to brag about. But with the woman’s particular occupation, these qualities were an unescapable requirement.

(F/n) the Chopper was a killer for hire under the Assassin’s Guild  ** _ORC_**  ( _The **O** perably  **R** elentless  **C** orpse-ifyers_)   and was close to reaching the status of Uruk-hai (the highest rank of assassin in the guild, directly under the Nine Nazgul leaders of ORC). So with this in mind, the Orc hireling had had no choice but to be unforgiving. This was hard for most of the lower ranking Guild members to achieve, but to (F/n) it came quite naturally.

When the young woman had first been recruited by the Guild at the age of fifteen, she had been fending on the streets by herself. Eating out of garbage cans and freezing on cold nights out in the elements had been her everyday lot in life. So at the opportunity for a way out of the gutter, the young woman had accepted it without a second thought as to what the price might be. Now some ten odd years later, she was an assassin through and through. Where she had once cringed at the screams of her prey, she now looked on with an emotionless face. Where she had once felt sick as she watched the light leave her victim’s eyes, she now willingly spent their last moments with them, talking them through it with a soft but firm voice.

Yes . . . the Chopper had made quite the name for herself, and because of this her life had changed for the better. Though deep down (F/n) didn’t gain  _pleasure_ from the lives she ended, she still was good at her work and had never once thought of going back to the life she’d had before. In a vastly growing age of technology and social propriety there was no room for a discarded child of the streets with daddy issues and a hideous past. She was out of place, so the woman remained contented, and found the respect she had so longed for in the Black Market and Underground businesses. And due to this, she had started getting bigger and better murder contracts for her trouble.

 Like tonight’s target. . .

(F/n) had been called in by Angmar (the forever masked leader of the Nine Nazgul) earlier that morning to discuss the details of the hit of a lifetime. The bounty was the largest that the woman had ever seen for a singular contract for anyone but the Uruk-hai ranking assassins, and the job itself was on the easier side of the spectrum as far as difficulty was concerned, so she had accepted without hesitation. Though even if she hadn’t wanted to accept the job, it would have fallen to her anyway, seeing as the person who had put up the bounty had specifically asked for the  _infamous Chopper_  to carry out the deed.

Angmar had solemnly begun to explain the particulars of her target, but the assassin had respectfully stopped him. (F/n) found that the less you knew about the person that you were meant to end, the easier it was to do the work, so she had settled for a description of the man she was meant to kill and an address for his safe house. (Apparently this man had gotten on the wrong side of one of the bigger crime syndicates; ruffled a couple of high up bad-boys by screwing up some of their drug shipments and putting their guys in jail.) The target was a humanitarian goody-two shoes Judge who couldn’t be paid off- or so Angmar had said as (F/n) turned to take her leave and prepare for her mission- and lots of people in the underground wanted him dead. This hit was supposedly a  _community service_ , and the scum of the earth would all thank her for it.

That had been many hours ago, and (F/n) was currently waiting for the proper time to strike her prey. It was nearing two a.m. now, and the world had finally grown still enough for the female assassin to feel comfortable. It was at times such as this that the woman almost felt like she belonged... When the world was dark and silent, and the noise-makers were either asleep or holed away in their places of refuge . . . But then the feeling would fade and she would be reminded that she was still an outsider; that she would  _never_ be a part of anything other than  _death_. And her mask would snap back firmly into place.

(F/n) had been scouting the address of her target in her unmarked SUV for two hours (before that she had  _found_ her way into the nearby apartment building and  _borrowed_ an old man’s window seat for a while). To be able to know what you were up against, one had to set a course and stick to it. Now as the assassin tapped her fingers against her steering wheel in a slow, thoughtful rhythm she knew that she shouldn’t wait any longer. The target’s guards changed every four and a half hours, and it had been four and a quarter. Now was the time to take him out; now was the time to do what she did best.

The Chopper got out of the car without hurry; not bothering to sneak as she walked towards the building door. Being  _too sneaky_ out in the open was a rookie mistake, and (F/n) was  _no_ rookie. The goal of a true assassin was to fit into a regular stereotype and use it to their advantage. If you acted different from the social norm you would get picked out on a camera or by witnesses faster than you could blink. But if you were observed as standard and average to everyone you met, you didn’t stand out and got away with . . . well  _murder_. . . Though having the black face mask in her pocket and concealing gray hoodie in place didn’t hinder matters in the slightest.

The door to the complex opened easily enough- with her lock picking skills and a new record of cracking the lock in 15.6 seconds (not that she was counting or worried) and she entered into the entry hall. There was a door off to the right that looked like the caretaker’s flat, and then a main desk that rested on the other side of the room. But neither of these were of much interest to the woman, so she ignored them and began to climb the flight of stairs that lead up towards the other renter’s homes. There was an elevator that she could have used, but (F/n) never liked the feeling of confined spaces and more often than not tried to avoid them when at all possible.

The Chopper knew that her target resided on the third floor in apt. 208, but the assassin didn’t stop on said floor. Instead she went one floor up and turned to apt. 308. Once more the lock pick came out, and she worked her magic, before creeping into the apartment directly above her targets. To her good fortune and fair amount of luck, the resident of 308 ( a rather portly old lady)  was fast asleep, so her job wasn’t interrupted as she moved past the entry hallway and to the far side of the unlit living room to silently open the window located there. (F/n) took a small breath to calm herself before she climbed out onto the small ledge. For a minute she hung there, getting used to the feeling of holding herself up with her arm strength alone, before the woman slowly began to climb down the building wall. When the ledge below her was within her reach, she slowly lowered herself onto it, and stopped. This would be the defining moment. Either her entrance would be unnoticed and she would be able to get in and out without a hassle, or she would be caught and have to kill more than just her target.

Counting the seconds in her mind, (F/n) prepared herself for the worst and slid the blade of her knife into the crack of the window. It took her a minute to lift the inside latch, but despite this she was able to open it quietly and enter without more than a slight rustling of her clothes. As her feet touched onto the carpeted floor, the woman let her eyes move across the room to assess her situation. She was in the living room- exactly matching the one she’d entered in apt. 308, with several couches and chairs and a coffee table. This was not over or underwhelming, but the assassin took it in all the same.

The apartment was completely dark save for a single lamp in the entry hallway by the front door, where she could hear two men talking quietly as they put on their coats, preparing to leave. This was her chance! The couple of precious minutes before her target’s protection once more surrounded him again, and her clean break was thrown to the wind.

She lowered down into a deep crouch and shuffled across the living room floor, her head no higher than the bottom of the couch-cushions as she moved towards the adjoining door that she was certain lead to a bedroom.  _His_ bedroom. With a small burst of speed, the Chopper reached up and turned the doorknob, before she crawled in and closed the door behind her. For a long pause she listened for any sign that one of the police officers had heard her and was coming to investigate. But when there was no intrusion (F/n) let her breathing return to normal and stood to her full height, facing the darkened room with purpose.

This bedroom was furnished far better than the living room was, with different shades of décor (though due to the darkness, the female couldn’t exactly tell what the color  _was)_  and a bed that was of good quality and king sized. But it was the stilled scene of the person on the bed that caught (F/n)’s full attention . . . or rather  _persons_.

Her target lay on his back, completely at ease and fast asleep. And though (F/n) hadn’t bothered to see a picture of the man before leaving the Guild, she knew without a doubt that it was  _him._ Angmar had said that her mark was considered handsome and well-groomed . . . and the Nazgul Leader hadn’t been lying. The man’s features were angular and sharp, almost like one might imagine ancient royalty would look. And his hair was the longest and most beautiful that the assassin had ever seen: white blonde locks that seemed to be made of spun silk. But none of this held her attention. . . Oh no. . . . It was the thing that rested on his chest that made the Chopper stop and stare.

A small boy, no older than five years rested against the man’s neck, his small hand clutching the soft blonde hair of the man as one would hold a lifeline. It was obvious that this little boy was her target’s son, but it still made (F/n)’s breath catch in her throat in a painful way at surprise.  

They were so  _beautiful_ , this father and son. . . Not just physically, but in the picturesque way they held onto each other. The father so gentle and emitting such absolute safety; the boy so trusting and peaceful. It was a scene from the heavens. An exact image of what bliss and family was meant to be. . .

And it made (F/n)’s stone cold heart break in bittersweet despair.

_This. . ._

_This_ was what she had never had. This . . .  _unadulterated love_ between parent and child. This family bond that nothing else could come close to, or ever hope of recreating. It was pure  _beauty_  and her steadfast resolve cracked and dissolved in a painful wisp or regret. Because for the first time in years the Chopper voluntarily lowered her knife. . .

. . . She  _couldn’t_  do it. . . Not when the child was present and so obviously in need his father.

The infamous assassin continued to stare at the angelic pair before her (e/c) eyes shone with tears and she had to turn away. As several fresh tears trickled down the woman’s face, she knew that her mission was forfeit. She would never be able to finish this task- not now or twenty years hence. She had been spoiled for it, and there was nothing now to do but retreat.

There would undoubtedly be a price to pay for walking away from this contract, but the ORC Chopper accepted it as she silently moved away from the bed and back towards the door. This little boy wouldn’t go without his father; she wouldn’t  _let him-_ at least not by her hand.

So (F/n) once more crept from the bedroom; closing the door behind her and sneaking back to the window she had entered through. With a shaky sigh, the woman took one last look back towards the door that had caused her to  _feel_ and then swung herself out onto the ledge without a sound. As she began to climb up the wall to the other apartment, the assassin prayed that the haunting scene would be left behind her, instead of displayed in the forefront in her wearied mind. But even as she entered apt. 308 and ran back down the flight of stairs to the safety of her car waiting outside, (F/n) knew that such a wish was impossible. That father and son had gotten to her . . . and the memory they had created for her would never be properly discarded.

 

* * * 

* * *

 

* * *

 

As the bedroom door once more clicked closed behind the female assassin, a new pair of eyes slid open to regard the dark. Stunning light blue shifted to the place where the intruder had stood mere moments ago, before they automatically raised to the ceiling. With a single hand, the owner of the blue orbs reached for his phone, and typed in a text with a long and steady forefinger.

**_The Orc assassin didn’t take the bait.  Just as you predicted._ **

The man waited for a second before his screen flickered with light and buzzed quietly in the darkness. The blonde haired man glanced at his child, making sure the boy stayed comfortable and asleep before he returned his gaze to the phone.

_What do you wish to do now?_

The man’s lips quirked slightly with a subtle smile before he typed back:  ** _I want her for the job. We continue with the plan as priorly agreed upon._**

_Alright, Thranduil. I’ll set it up._

Thranduil laid his phone back down on his bedside table and ran a soft hand through his little boy’s hair, with a now triumphant smile. Then the man closed his light blue eyes and fell into a dreamless and uninterrupted sleep.

* * *

 


	2. Part Two

**Modern AU! Thranduil x Orc Reader**  
 

**Beauty Tamed the Beast: Part Two**

* * *

 

It was almost 9 o’clock in the morning, and (F/n) still hadn’t gone to sleep. This wasn’t too surprising: the assassin very rarely could find the gentle touch of oblivion after taking a contract. . . But as the woman now faced the looming building known as the ORC Guild’s headquarters, she wished that she could have caught at least an hour or two. It was true that the Chopper was happy to see her  _home away from home_ , but today all hell was going to break loose upon her . . . and it awaited her reluctant presence inside this wretched building . . .

The ORC Guild had many properties that they used around the globe, but the main structure of  _Dol Guldur_ was a truly thought provoking sight. To any passerby that was unlucky enough to see it, it seemed to be an expensive business firm or prison with great iron fences and guards that patrolled day and night. And to some extent this assumption would have been right; the Guild _was_ like a prison.

Without a single window on the premises it proved a dark place to be, but most of the assassins that resided there wouldn’t have had it any other way. When one is trained in the dark, one takes it with oneself everywhere . . . and the ORC-lings were no exception to this rule.

(F/n) approached the main gate –that was laced with electricity for the poor souls that tried to enter unwelcomed- and slowly let her hands hang down at her sides. Though the woman usually preferred to have her hands in her pockets when she walked, she kept them in clear sight as she came to a stop at the teller’s entrance. For even as a well-known and accepted member of ORC, to come armed and uncooperative to the gate was a sign of disrespect. And it was a challenge that would  _not_ go unanswered.  From the unseen snipers on the roof, to the laser tech and combat-trained sentinels on watch, Dol Guldur was a deathtrap. . . A deathtrap that would most eagerly take your life, if you let it.

“Speak your name,” one of the guards said as the Chopper stood before them with a relaxed yet submissive posture.

“(F/n) ORC-ling: the Chopper,” she said firmly.

“And the password, ORC-ling?”

“ ** _Burzum_**.” As the ancient word for ‘darkness’ passed through her lips, (F/n) returned her hands to her pockets, for she knew that the entry-check was officially over. None other than the Guild members knew the  **Black Speech** , and the guards were more than aware of that fact. As the air fell silent after the accursed word had stopped resounding, the guards stepped aside to let her pass. And the woman wasted no more time as she strode into the monster of a building and entrenched herself in the dark that she had known so long.

* * * *

* * *

 

* * * *

It was with soundless feet that (F/n) walked the familiar corridors of black and blood red, nodding to the few brothers and sisters she passed with a solemn yet polite greeting. Countless faces and names that escaped her memory. Forgotten children who she had trained and grown with, and those strange few who came into the fold later on in life. All killers and all impressive in their skill set. Though at times, the Chopper almost wished that her  _talents_ weren’t necessary . . .

Quickly the woman pushed the thought from her mind, and forced a blank slate. She didn’t have time for regret or self-pity. For the storm that was coming, she would have to be completely in the game, and she couldn’t be focused if her center was clouded. And it was as she thought this that (F/n) turned the final corner to reach her specific destination, and was stopped in her tracks. This action wasn’t due to a physical blockade, but rather by the Choppers own decision.

At the end of the great Shadow Hall, the Nazgul Chamber door was just closing after a singular figure who was exiting from within.  It was a man, and one that (F/n) had come to know rather well.

For the first time in several days the woman’s lips turned up at the corners, and she felt a bit of the unseen weight on her chest lift as if to give her a taste of air. In truth, (F/n)’s smile was small and reserved, but it was genuine and meant quite a lot in the long run. The infamous Chopper immediately called out to the man.

“Thorin.”

At the sound of his name, the large man turned around and a matching smile took hold of his features.

Thorin – otherwise known as  _The Oak_ or  _Oaken One_ \- was a fellow assassin of ORC and one of the only people that the Chopper thought of as a friend. Though this was a bit strange, seeing as Thorin had only joined the Guild four years ago, and (F/n) was not fast to trust. But seeing his record, it was hard not to be impressed. The Oaken One was naturally gifted and had quickly made his way to the top- just recently reaching the high rank of Uruk-hai and had gained the respect of the Nazgul. It was a fact that Thorin was vicious when he needed to be, but outside of his contracts the Oak was good company to keep and reliable in a pinch. (Something that (F/n) had come to count on and fully cherish.)

As the two assassin’s now drew closer to one another, the woman spoke again, though with slight humor clouding her tone.

“You’re late.”

Thorin looked at her with a firm expression. “No, (F/n). The contract just took longer than expected.”

(F/n) gazed at him skeptically. Thorin had received his first Uruk-hai level contract two weeks ago, and had been confident that he would be back in three days. That had been a week ago.

“It wasn’t as easy as you thought it was going to be.” It was an absolute statement, and Thorin frowned slightly.

“I never said it was going to be easy.”

“But you implied it. You said three to four days tops to get in and out.” It was like poking a tiger in a cage- taunting him- but the Chopper knew that he was too much of a softie to do anything about it. “I recall thinking differently. I won our wager; cough it up.”

Thorin snorted before shaking his head. “I don’t have it on me.”

“And yet a bet is still a bet.”

“I just got back,” Thorin grumbled. “I’ll pay you tomorrow when I’ve had time to cash-in.”

(F/n) chuckled quietly as her muscular friend muttered about her being a ‘bloody vulture’, before she grew solemn once more. The minute of light-hearted reprieve was over, and now she had to face the fire again. She couldn’t put it off any longer.  

He noticed this, and said, “I could use a drink later this evening, if you’re up to it. And don’t worry; it’ll be on me.”

“Thank you. I’ll need it after this.”

Thorin’s face grew stoic and his eyes flashed with subtle worry. “Something happened while I was away.”

“Yeah. Angmar is in there laying in wait for me. . . I’d better go and get it over with before he comes to find me.”

With this settled, the woman moved to walk past her friend, but before she could he had placed a hand on her shoulder. Thorin’s grip wasn’t hard, but it was solid enough to make her look back at him. She gazed at her Guild Brother with questioning eyes before he reassuringly squeezed her shoulder blade and let go.

“Watch yourself, (F/n).”

This wasn’t meant as a threat, but as a concerned warning.

“You as well, my friend.”

Thorin nodded in acceptance before (F/n) turned and once more approached the Nazgul’s door. Taking a deep breath the Chopper lifted her knuckles and wrapped on the ebony wooden surface. When she heard the familiar raspy drawl bid her to enter, the woman steeled herself, took one last glance at Thorin who was standing by supportively until she was admitted, and bravely let herself into the viper’s nest.

  
* * * *

* * *

 

* * * *

(F/n) had been in the Nazgul chambers (private offices) countless times over the years, but never before had she felt so naked and laid bare as she did now. She had entered at Angmar’s invitation, and moved to stand before the chair where her leader sat at ease. For several breaths both were still, and the Chopper who wasn’t a particularly jumpy person was rendered thoroughly agitated.

Finally, when the woman was about to open her mouth to speak, Angmar broke the silence.

**_“I hear that you were unable to finish your task, ORC-ling. Is that true?”_ **

This was all asked in the  **Black Speech**  and was nothing more than a formality, seeing as the Nazgul Monarch knew all the details of his underling’s contracts- but she answered anyway.

“Yes, sir.”

 ** _“Why is that?”_**  (F/n) internally cringed at the soft rasp that was her leader’s voice, but firmly held her ground. Her posture was of one who was unafraid, but still respectful.

“There were aspects that I had not anticipated, and I could not act accordingly.”

A hoarse laugh filled the shadowy room as Angmar watched her behind the black and grey mask he always wore. No one in the Guild had ever seen his face, but his eyes were a legend among the ORC’s. They were yellowish gold in color- some claimed he was a demon reincarnated in a human body; others thought that he was dying of a strange disease that killed the pigment in his eyes. But no matter what the truth might have been, it was vastly agreed upon that the Nazgul Angmar could  _kill_ with no more than a glance. The orbs were the only part of his face that showed; but they helped express everything that he said or did without trouble. And the golden eyes did so now, as they looked upon the ORC Chopper indulgently.

**_“Oh? And what was it exactly that took the infamous Chopper by surprise?”_ **

“I cannot say, sir.”

**_“Can’t you?”_ **

“No, sir. I cannot.”

Angmar leaned forward in his chair ever so slightly, his dark dress robe sliding across his sickly white wrists and hands like a snake’s skin, as his eyes blazed in challenge.

**_“Then am I correct in assuming that these . . . aspects . . . are no longer a problem for you?”_ **

(F/n) felt her heart rise painfully in her throat at the obvious threat behind the words. Though the woman was more than capable of taking care of herself, she was undoubtedly  _afraid_ of the deprived Leader of the Guild and had no choice but to bow her head and submit.

“Yes, sir.”

He returned to his regular position in the comfy chair, and (F/n) knew from the eerie light in his eyes that he was smiling beneath the mask.

**_“Good. Then you will go back tonight and finish the task you have been given.”_ **

Despite (F/n)’s best efforts, she couldn’t stop her forehead from crinkling in disagreement.

“Sir-”

 ** _“Enough.”_**  The word was not shouted or said with anger-based feeling, but it was enough to stop the woman mid word.  ** _“This is my wish, ORC-ling. You will kill the target that you were given when you accepted your contract, or I will kill you. Is that understood?”_**

(F/n) wanted nothing more than to protest or to fight back, but she knew that doing so would mean immediate death. So she inclined her head respectfully and accepted her Leader’s command, though she was absolutely boiling beneath the surface.

“Perfectly . . . sir.”

Angmar’s golden eyes regarded her for several long moments before he turned his gaze away, a clear sign of dismissal.

 ** _“Then we are of one mind again.”_**  There was dry-humor in the Nazgul’s tone as he waved a single hand in her direction.  ** _“You may go now.”_**

(F/n) the Chopper uttered an insincere ‘thank you, sir’ before she immediately turned on her heel and left the accursed room. But even as she closed the ebony door behind her and walked back the way she had come, the certainty of being watched didn’t leave her. Nor did the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to kill the man with the little boy. . . But she had no choice. It was either her target’s life or hers, and the Chopper always looked out for number one.

  
* * * *

* * *

* * * *

  
As soon as (F/n) was outside Dol Guldur and safely tucked into her SUV, the woman pulled out her mobile phone and typed in a quick message.

**_Can we have that drink now?_ **

It was several minutes before her phone beeped with a reply.

_I’ll be there as soon as possible. Wait for me at Butterbur’s._

**_Thanks Thorin._ **

_Be safe._

(F/n) re-pocketed her phone and quickly turned her key in the ignition. Though it would take Thorin sometime to join her, she had to get there quickly. She had to take the time to figure out her next steps, and more importantly numb the small streak of conscience that was beginning to break through.

 

. . . .

 

Some fifteen minutes later, the woman cruised into a parking space in front of Butterbur’s Bar and Grill and shut off her engine. For a brief period of time, the female assassin let her game face slide back into place before she unhurriedly got out of her car and walked towards the little business that offered her some solace.

Butterbur’s was a quaint little bar that in all honesty (F/n) never would have set foot into if it wasn’t for Thorin’s love of the place. It wasn’t a bad spot; just something that she wouldn’t have found on her own. There were many tables and booths spread out around the little café, and then the bar and rotund barman who the Chopper was now familiar with. Without preamble the woman strode straight to the bar and put down a twenty on the counter, catching the owners attention.

“Oh, hello there, Miss Underhill!” He greeted happily, using the fake name that Thorin always called her in public places. “How are you today?”

“I’ve been better,” she said honestly as she took one of the stools that was attached to the bar, making the portly man shake his head.

“I’m sorry to hear tha’.” When (F/n) shrugged, the man (who was in-fact Butterbur) flashed her a smile. “So what can I get you then?”

“A glass of Red Wine please.”

Butterbur began to prepare her drink, and when he was done and had placed it directly before her, he pushed back the twenty she had put on the counter for him. When she looked ready to protest, the friendly barkeep just shook his head.

“Thorin has a tab.”

(F/n) inwardly praised her friend’s foresight before she thanked Butterbur, and lifted her glass up for her first sip. It was smooth going down, and had just the right amount of a grip to make her taste buds happy. She swallowed, and would have given Butterbur a tip, if he hadn’t disappeared into his backroom. Though truthfully, drinking in peace was just what she had needed.

As the woman took another sip from her wine, she stopped thinking. The events from both the night before and earlier that morning slipped from her conscious and she was blank. There was nothing other than the spirits before her and the calm environment of Butterbur’s. . . Until the bell above the door rang out breaking her concentration (or lack of). (F/n) didn’t bother to look at the newcomer, knowing that if it had been Thorin he would have said something the moment he stepped across the threshold. But despite her otherwise placed attention, the woman noted that the presence of the intruder was strong, even without seeing them.

She heard the soft footfalls on the hardwood floor, though wasn’t surprised when the person came to stand at the counter- to her right. (It was a bar/restaurant after all)

“Salutations,” the stranger greeted cordially, in a deep and flowing voice that was without a doubt male. “Would this seat be taken, by any chance?”

“No. Knock yourself out.” (F/n) replied without looking up from her cup, as she took another excessive gulp.  

“Thank you, Ms. (L/n).” At this she lifted her eyes to stare at the man who she had otherwise ignored, and felt her stomach clench in dismay. Long silky white blonde hair . . . a smooth and handsome face . . . a well-tailored three piece suit. . .   It was (F/n)’s _target_.

The man looked at the surprised woman pleasantly before he smiled, “Oh, I beg your pardon. . . You prefer the title  _(F/n) the Chopper_ don’t you- or so I’ve been told. I hope you can forgive me for getting it wrong.”

(F/n) felt a thousand anxieties rise in her chest, but one stood out from all the others. Her target knew her name, and he had somehow been able to follow her. . . That usually only meant  _one thing._ He wanted something . . . But the question was  _what?_

“How did you find me?”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his IPhone before he pulled something up on the screen and held it up for her to see.

All the color drained from (F/n)’s face as her world seemingly shattered.

_. . . T-Thorin . . ._


	3. Part Three

 

**Modern AU! Thranduil x Orc Reader** **  
**

**Beauty Tamed the Beast: Part Three**

* * *

****  
  
(F/n) didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her chest began to ache, but even then she couldn’t bring herself to exhale.

There on her target’s phone screen was a picture of herself and Thorin. They’d taken it a year prior; her hair had been longer then and Thorin hadn’t looked so stoic and tired as he did nowadays. The picture had been an impulsive decision, and due to this there were only two copies in the world. The Chopper had one, and the Oak had the other . . . which could only mean one thing.

For a brief second, (F/n) was consumed by absolute fury- but then just as quickly her professional mask slid into place and her emotions were replaced with cold and righteous  _action._ She was no longer surprised, and her relaxed-self disappeared as she placed her glass of wine down on the bar counter. Then she let her instincts take over.

Before the sloshing wine in the glass could settle, the assassin was out of her seat and had a knife pressed firmly to the man’s neck. Within only seconds she was in position, and her emotionless mask was secured. With one hand she held the back of his head to give her blade a better angle, and to keep him steady if he tried to escape her hold- though he hadn’t so much as moved yet.

As the Chopper let her grip tighten at the back of his head, she noted instantly that her target’s hair was soft and well cared for. The man obviously took care of his hygiene and did a good job with it. He smelled  _very_  good- quite fresh and  _earthy_ which was surprisingly a good thing. Though these little details meant almost nothing to the female assassin . . . oh no. Her attention was drawn to the fact that he hadn’t done  _anything._

(F/n) had taken many hostages in her years of working as an ORC-ling, and it was an unspoken rule that victims never came quietly. They always tried to barter or beg, or in the off case fight back. But (F/n)’s target paid no heed to what was  _normal._

The man sat perfectly still against her death-grip, strangely relaxed as she pressed the blade of her knife to the tender skin of his throat. And it immediately put the Chopper on edge.

There were only three types of victim who were calm in a situation like this: the clinically insane who had no true grasp of reality, those poor suicidal souls who didn’t care for their own wellbeing . . . and then those who had  _no reason_  to be afraid of a threat. The last category of person was unquestionably the worst of the three, and (F/n) knew that her target fit into it.

This realization almost made the woman kill him right then and there; but before she could the image of the man’s little boy flickered into her mind, stopping her.

So instead of killing him, she addressed the man in a quiet and even tone.

“You have two minutes to explain yourself, before I slice your carotid artery and let you bleed out.” Here she pressed the knife a tad harder into his flesh for emphasis. “For your sake, I hope you don’t waste it.”

Most under the Chopper’s block would have cried or even frozen up . . . the blonde haired man did neither of these things. . . . Instead, he began to  _laugh._

It wasn’t particularly loud or evasive, but it was enough to make (F/n)’s blood turn to ice. This wasn’t because it was an unwelcomed or disturbing sound. But rather the fact that the woman  _liked_ his laugh. . . Never in her life had the ORC Chopper felt so much with so  _little_ , and she immediately grew more on edge than before. Though she kept her outward cool, inside she was shaken.

“Have I said something funny?”

As the soft chuckle died down, her target’s posture once more became relaxed and he answered without preamble.

“Your colleague knows you well,” he said with mild humor. “He predicted your reactions down to the letter. From the wine you would be drinking, to the question you would ask first and what you would do when I showed you the picture.”

(F/n) internally cringed. “You are wasting your two minutes.”

“What I have to say to you will take longer than the allotted time, I’m afraid.”

“Then bad luck for you,” she hissed quietly, before she snapped at him, “Don’t touch the phone, or you lose the hand.”

Her target who ignored her threat, continued to grab his cell off the bar and held it out to her, gesturing for her to take it. “I merely thought that calling your ally would help put you at ease. But I am unopposed to us continuing this business discussion without his insights on the matter.”

“The only business I have with  _you,_  is ending your life and dumping your body behind this bar for Butterbur to clean up.”

Though there was venom behind her words, the man seemingly took no notice- his calm cadence never faltering for a second.

“But to do so would undo your fine work of last night- or  _lack thereof_.”

(F/n)’s heart beat increased, and despite her better judgment she bit his bait. “What are you talking about?”

“Your contract to kill me.” There was humor to his tone again. “You did such a wonderful job of leaving me alive; it would seem a waste of your efforts to go back on that decision now.”

Now it was (F/n)’s turn to laugh. “I was told you were smart, but it seems that the people who wanted you dead overestimated you.”

“How so?” Still, despite her insult the man stayed eerily calm. . . In truth it was beginning to irritate her.

Leaning down so that she was hovering next to his ear, she said harshly, “The only reason you’re still alive is because your child was with you last night. I spared you only for that little boy’s sake, so he wouldn’t wake up in a pool of his father’s blood. But you pushed your luck a second time, and he’s not here to save you again.”

(F/n) paused a moment once more, reigning back her anger as her mind flashed to Thorin. The chances of him still being alive were slim. If this strange man knew all about them, both (F/n) and Thorin were as good as dead. Quite literally; their lives as assassins set aside.

 “What have you done to the Oak?”

“Pardon?”

“Thorin,” she clarified. “Where is he?”

“I  _suppose_  he is at his residence getting some desperately needed rest after his last contract.” Came the simple reply. “Or doing whatever it is that he deems worth his time.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

The man sighed softly, once more gesturing to his phone. “Speaking to him yourself would be much easier than running around the subject as we have been doing, Ms. (L/n).”

(F/n) knew that this was most likely just a shoddy ploy to get her to let her guard down, but for some reason she ignored her instincts. With a smooth movement, the knife at his throat dropped and she was once more sitting on her bar-stool as if nothing had happened. Though the blade still remained in her hand, she openly ignored the man (now sitting beside her) as she pulled out her own phone and dialed Thorin’s number.

The blonde man gave her a small smile at the clear sign of mistrust- but put his own cell away without a word of protest. Then as the Chopper lifted her phone up to her ear, he gracefully reached out and took her wine glass. She watched him with narrowed eyes as he wiped the rim off with the fresh napkin that Butterbur had left for her, and then took a generous sip of the fine beverage. This was a wordless challenge on his part- he was testing her- something that made (F/n) once again question his character. No normal person would taunt someone who had just moments before had a knife to their neck . . . but he was, and quite shamelessly too.

He hummed appreciatively as he swirled the ruby liquid around, and looked to her expectantly.

“You have fine taste for one so young.”

(F/n) immediately wanted to make a crack about calling the kettle black (he was no old man himself) but she stayed quiet and waited for Thorin to pick up. As the nerve-wracking ringing in her ear continued for a full minute, the woman thought she’d go insane. Though just as she was about to hang up and get back to finishing her target, the ringing stopped and the familiar clicking sound filled her hearing.

Then to her absolute relief a tired voice on the other line answered her.

_“. . . Yes.”_

“T-Thorin?” To (F/n)’s despair her voice cracked, but she quickly muscled past it. “Where are you?”

There was a pause before Thorin replied,  _“I’m safe.”_

To most this would have seemed like an open and unfulfilling answer, but to the Chopper it was a sign that her Guild brother was in fact himself. But she couldn’t take chances. If Thorin was being coerced in any way she had to know, and there was only one way to test it.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she said softly, keeping her face impassive for the blonde man who was currently watching her with mild interest. “I shouldn’t have left you right after an argument. I’m sorry.”

  _“Kisses or brawls; it doesn’t matter to me.”_

As Thorin said this (F/n) closed her eyes and felt the weight that had been resting on her chest lift in an almost painful way. Thorin was  _safe_. He had used the positive code, meaning that he wasn’t under duress or captured. If he  _had_ been in trouble, he would have commented on how her kisses were what he wanted the most. (The irony was not lost on (F/n), but it was amazing how many people overlooked a lover’s passionate pleas when it came to phone calls.)

“What’s going on, Thorin,” the Chopper finally asked after a moment of regaining herself, flashing unreadable eyes to her target who sat calmly, drinking the remainder of her glass of wine. “What’s happening? How does my mark know you? How did he get our picture?”

_“ . . . I think you already know the answers to that, (F/n).”_

(F/n)’s felt her bottom lip grow stiff, though she didn’t break as she said, “Why don’t you tell me, brother.”

“Because he doesn’t wish to hurt you anymore than he already has,” the blonde man answered, uncannily entering the conversation that he shouldn’t have had a hand in.

(F/n) threw a questioning look at him, before she once more spoke to Thorin. “Please Thorin . . . tell me.”

The Oaken one was silent for a pause, before he gave her what she wanted, his voice tired but steady as he answered her questions.

_“The man sitting beside you- your target from last night- is an ally of mine. Thranduil Greenwood.”_

“A-An ally? . . . ” Once again (F/n) felt a heavy weight building on her chest, and held her breath. Knowing what this meant before Thorin answered. 

_“Yes.”_

“You’re . . .” the woman stopped and started again. “You’re working with a Judge. . . The law of the land.”

_“. . . Yes. . .”_

The woman felt a single tear slide down her cheek, breaking her empty façade and making her anger and disappointment almost overflow. But she held it back and smiled without humor as she stated, “You’re an undercover cop, aren’t you.”

Thorin was silent on the other end of the line, and though he didn’t deny or agree they both knew the truth. Then, after a moment he spoke again.

_“I have no right to ask you to do this, but I would want you to listen to what Greenwood says. Hear him out before you make your decision.”_

The decision where I kill him or not, (F/n) thought to herself. And where I keep your secret or turn you in, brother.

“Goodbye Thorin,” she said emotionlessly preparing to hang up the call.

_“Watch yourself, (F/n).”_ The woman felt her stomach clench at his familiar phrase, but pressed the end call button without so much as flinching.

The Chopper replaced her phone in her pants pocket and let a sigh escape her as a thousand thoughts drifted through her troubled mind. And for a minute she was left to ponder what actions she would take, until a gentle voice interrupted her reflections.

“Are you prepared to hear my business proposition now, Ms. (L/n)?”

(F/n) turned to regard her target, Thranduil Greenwood, with a blank expression. “I will hear you out, but that doesn’t mean I will accept.”

She would listen to this man for Thorin’s sake; she owed him that much after all the times he had been there. Though it was all she could give him . . . now that she had been betrayed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a bit of trouble, due to trying to get Thrandy's dialogue feel but I think I did alright. What yall think? And before this story goes any farther I need to clear some things up real quick. 
> 
> In this story universe everyone is human. There is no magic, or immortal folk, or rings of power. lols 
> 
> And I know that you some of you might be catching some Thorin/Reader vibes, but I am here to tell you that there is no romantic interested between the two. They are more like brother and sister then anything else, and I don't want to confuse anyone. This is a Thranduil x Reader story, so expect the sparks to come from that direction. ;p 
> 
> Anyway, how are we all enjoying the story thus far? Everyone comfortable? ^ ^ Please let me know how you're enjoying the journey! I always love to hear from you guys! :heart: 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do NOT own: the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings books or films, any of the characters used or mentioned, or the gloriously handsome Lee Pace whom we all secretly (or not so secretly) want in our lives.


	4. Part Four

 

**Modern AU! Thranduil x Orc Reader**

**Beauty Tamed the Beast: Part Four**

 

* * *

 

  
For several long moments Butterbur’s bar was silent; both man and woman locked in a wordless battle of wills. One with a cold, calculating gaze, and the other with an aura of mild amusement. It was the former who spoke first.

“So, Thranduil Greenwood: what  _is_  your business proposition?”

The man’s light blue eyes seemed to shine with unknown motive for a moment, before he moved to answer her.

“I am well aware that you have received an ultimatum from the Witch King, for my blood.” At the familiar nickname for Angmar (F/n)’s eyebrow rose, though Greenwood ignored her response and continued. “I am here to extend a new contract and grant you a counter-offer.”

(F/n) wondered how her target had come to know of Angmar’s threat, and would have puzzled over it for quite some time if a mental image of Thorin hadn’t flooded into her conscious almost immediately . . . The Oak must have been eavesdropping on the conversation she’d had with the Nazgul Leader in his chamber earlier that morning. It was the only plausible explanation for her target knowing what he knew- seeing as no electronics were allowed into Dol Guldur’s interior and all ORC-lings were thoroughly scanned at the gate.

At the reminder of Thorin’s betrayal, the Chopper wanted nothing more than to kill the man sitting next to her at the bar and be done with the whole ordeal. . . But she had vowed to hear him out before making a decision. So she would wait.

“What did you have in mind?” Though her voice was frosty and full of venom, Thranduil remained unperturbed as he steepled his long hands together and regarded her. It was downright  _unnatural_  how at ease he was.

“Last night you proved yourself incapable of killing me, and for your trouble you’ve been trapped in a precarious position.” The woman was about to object, but the look he passed her made her stay quiet. This wasn’t due to intimidation, but rather  _curiosity_. “I propose that we compromise. You return to your Guild with a clean slate of conduct, and I continue to live.”

“And how do we accomplish such a flawless outcome?” (F/n)’s voice was laced with well-deserved skepticism, and Thranduil upon hearing it, smiled lightly.

“We  _fake_ it, Ms. (L/n).”

The Chopper raised an eyebrow. “And just  _how_ do we fake your death?”

“Technology these days can work wonders, can it not?”

“. . . Yes. But even if we were capable of creating a convincing death before a camera, we’d have to  _hope_ that one of the Guild’s servers picked it up and streamed it to the proper channels. It’d be a gamble of a lifetime. One in a million chance.”

“It wouldn’t be left to hope or luck, my dear.” Thranduil raised (F/n)’s commandeered glass of wine that he had been holding, and confidently downed the rest of the crimson liquid in one swallow.

(F/n) studied him for a long moment before what he was really saying clicked. “You’ve found a way to hack ORC’s systems.”

The man offered no clarification, but from the miniscule tip of his head, and tapping of his fingers against the glass as he laid it on the bar, the assassin knew that she was on the right track. And for the first time since the night before, the ORC-ling felt a spark of positive energy kindle within her. Perhaps there was a way out of this corner after all. . .

“And what about the job offer?” She wondered aloud, moving on to the second item of business Greenwood had mentioned. “ _If_ we somehow succeeded in streaming your theatrical demise to the Guild, what then?”

Thranduil wasted no time in reaching into the depths of his suit coat, as he answered the female assassin plainly. “I wish for you to kill someone. . . I’ve heard you’re quite good at it.”

(F/n) snorted despite herself, and noted that his smile grew slightly larger at the sound. “I was under the impression that Judges lived by the law? No killing, stealing, encroaching, or blackmailing- that lovely crime-free lifestyle that I’ve heard so much about.”

“Some crimes call for desperate measures,” he said calmly, though she knew she had finally hit a nerve by the displeasure that seemed to waft from him.

Basking in her first true victory against the man, (F/n) asked, “Who is it I would be killing?”

At this, what was left of Thranduil’s smile disappeared completely, as he pulled out a package from his suit and slid it to her on the bar counter.

“Someone who deserves death.”

When (F/n) made no move to touch or open the envelope, he sighed almost inaudibly.

“I am unsure of what his true name is,” he offered. “But in the underground he is known as  _Sauron.”_

(F/n)’s expression remained unchanged, for she had never heard the name before and found no terror in it.

“Who is he? And why do you want him dead?” Usually, the woman never wanted details with her contracts, seeing as it made it personal and harder to carry out without complications. But this time she would need to know. Greenwood  _was_ a judge after all, and this could very well be a trap.

At her questions, Thranduil’s eyes became suddenly angry; the light blue pools turning into craggy glaciers in a mere matter of seconds. And despite the calm stature he presented before, his body tensed ever so slightly.  The Chopper was sure she would have missed this minute difference if she hadn’t been trained to spot such things. But luckily she  _had,_ and it wasn’t lost on her. 

“My reasons are irrelevant to the task’s completion,” came the curt reply. “All you need know, is that he is a man with many agendas that have hurt more people than can be named. He drabbles in the drug cartels and the sex slave trade, among many other  _less than savory_ activities. Sauron is a merchant of death, and must be stopped before he can cause further damage to this world.”

The ORC-ling was quiet for a moment before she said, “You seem to forget that I deal in death too.” (F/n) didn’t have any intention of letting her heart rule her head a second time, so she stood firm. “If you want him terminated, after all you have cost me, I’ll need a better reason then you trying to appeal to my humanity.”

“I will pay you whatever commission you deem appropriate.” But the ORC-ling was already shaking her head.

“It’s not a matter of money. If I end up taking this job, it’ll be because I  _want_ to. . . Now tell me, why should I work for the man who I was  _supposed_ to kill?  _Why._ Do.  _You._ Want. Him.  ** _Dead_** _?”_

Thranduil’s jaw clenched, and he once more pushed the envelope towards her. “He was involved in the death of someone I hold dear. A trait both Thorin and I share.”

(F/n)’s breath caught in her throat and her mask slipped. “Thorin lost someone? . . .”

For a moment the judge and assassin were both quiet, before Thranduil firmly pressed the package into the woman’s hands. And as she met his gaze once more, she couldn’t help but be entranced by the ardent glimmer that shone through the surface to greet her.

“See for yourself the wanton destruction that monster has caused, and tell me you would let him go unchallenged for his crimes.”

(F/n) looked into his light blue eyes for a long minute, and felt some of her resolve fade. Before, Thranduil’s fiery gaze had only seemed angry . . . but upon looking closer, the assassin could see so much more. There was regret, despair, and  _pain_  there as well. So much pain, that she could feel the hard shell around her heart shake in its very foundations. Whoever it was that Greenwood had lost, they had been someone invaluable to him. The collected and savvy Judge had  _loved_ this person beyond measure, and he wanted nothing more than swift retribution for the one responsible for taking his cherished one away. It was cold and simple, and something that the woman could be sympathetic toward.

(F/n) didn’t say a word as she opened the envelope and shifted her eyes away from his, but the woman had already made up her mind on what her answer would be. Silently, the Chopper leafed through the stack of photographs that had been housed in the paper sheaf. They depicted blown up buildings (several hospitals), corpses that had been pushed into piles and were rotting, large crates of weapons that were about to be shipped out, and several girls ranging from 12 to 20 with little to no clothing on. It was these women that caught the assassin’s attention. And if the woman had had any more empathetic tears to shed, she would have cried for them.

For a full minute (F/n) lingered on the pictures with the abused girls, before she lifted up the last one in the stack for inspection. Expecting more carnage, the woman nearly choked when her eyes came to rest on the center figure in the last image.

Though the ORC-ling had been trained for years to disregard her fear, it now consumed her tenfold. Her heartbeat resounded painfully in her ears, and her hands turned deathly white as she held the picture in a death grip.  It had been a very long time since the woman had felt this way, but the familiar feeling of being sick to her stomach was far from unexpected . . . given the circumstances.

(F/n) let her now dead eyes pass over the singular man in the photo, fighting the darkness it brought with all her might. She had been ruined by this demon before, and she would  _never_ allow a repeat performance.

“Is this Sauron?”

The question was said so softly that Thranduil wouldn’t have heard it, if he hadn’t been waiting for her to speak. And though he seemed curious over her reaction and sudden interest, he merely confirmed her inquiry.

The Chopper’s eyes never left the picture as she spoke again, and the conviction in her tone would have been enough to make most stop cold in their tracks.

“You’ve got yourself a contract, Greenwood. Sauron is as good as dead.”

Thranduil inclined his head in understanding. “Where should I deposit your fee?”

The ORC assassin shook her head. “No fee. This one’s on me.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Thranduil studied the woman carefully, looking for a tell on her pretty face. But all he found was her mask, once more firmly in place.

“My reasons are irrelevant to the task,” she said, repeating his own words from just minutes before. “All you need to know is that I’ll get the job done.”

(F/n) stared at the picture and felt the sure-fire tendrils of hate clench painfully at the edge of her mind. But despite the pain she remained unfazed.

_Get ready to meet your end, Sauron._ She thought as she once more met Thranduil’s light blue gaze.  _I’m coming for you, and nothing will stop me this time . . . . **father.  
**_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! :D So lately my obsession with a certain Elven King/Actor has completely gotten out of hand, so I've decided to make a series. I have a basic plot line and some character points, but otherwise this one is writing itself. It's based purely on my love for Thranduil and Lee Pace, so believe me when I say that I'm going to enjoy the ride as much as the rest of ya! ;p I almost completely blame my dearest of friends over on DA. She made me rabid again~! 
> 
> Also, I've decided to mix a bunch of Lord of the Rings/Hobbit elements into the Modern Alternate Universe I've created. The Reader is a Orc assassin, the Nine Ring-Wraiths are in charge of the assassin's guild, Thranduil is a Judge, and Legolas is a little boy. (There will be more appearances of characters from Hobbit so just a heads up now!! *giggles*) 
> 
> So what do yall think of this so far? I'm a bit nervous about it, but I'm gonna be brave and write it anyway. Any feedback you guys can give me will be cherished and help a bundle. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do NOT own the Hobbit book or movies or the lovely characters created by Professor Tolkien. Also, Lee Pace is NOT mine. . .cause if he was I wouldn't be sitting here writing fanfiction about him.


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